


The Crusade

by crimsoncomradeposts



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Drug Use, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Italian Mafia, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23683255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsoncomradeposts/pseuds/crimsoncomradeposts
Summary: For me, it’s a job. For you, it’s a crusade. Isn’t that what Flip had told Ron nearly a year ago? And now, here he is, his entire world turned on it’s head, smack dab in the middle of a crusade of his own.A post-BlackKklansman fic in which Flip’s next major assignment is to infiltrate and uncover the inner workings of mob crime that’s moved into the Colorado Springs Area. He’d been ready for the drugs and the danger. What he hadn’t been ready for was you.
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Reader, Flip Zimmerman/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

“A whole year, can you believe it?” Ron plops down into his chair, the very same one he’d sat in when he’d first arrived to the Intelligence Unit of the Colorado Springs Police Department.

“Woah, slow down there, Rookie,” says Flip, lining up another impending shot of balled up paper. He flicks his wrist, sending the paper flying to sink dead center of the nearby trash can. “ _Swish!_ ” He turns in his seat to face Ron to circle back to the topic at hand. “You still got another, oh,” he purses his lips, checking his watch as if he’s truly trying to do the math, “how long we still got, Jimmy?”

Jimmy partially rises up from his seat, finger pointing as he calls out to Ron from across the room. “Another two weeks yet!”

“That’s right,” Flip says, enunciating each word slowly, pointing his own finger at Ron now. “Another two weeks to go.”

Ron scoffs, eyes rolling at their own accord as he utters ‘close enough’ in response to Jimmy and Flip, who are both chuckling to themselves at their respective desks. In two weeks it’ll have been one full year since they’d wrapped up their investigation into the cluster of the Klan’s members in the Colorado Springs area. Ever since then, the department had been pretty quiet, save for the usual petty criminals that filtered in and out of the station in near perfect rotation.

“Zimmerman.” Sergeant Trapp’s voice booms out into the room, calling for Flip who’s turning in his chair to face the direction from which the voice had originated. “Get your ass in my office. Ten minutes. Got somethin’ to discuss with you.”

That, of course, sets Jimmy and Ron off, the two of them behaving like children who’s friend’s just been called to the principal’s office. Their response causes Flip to wave them off carelessly with a wave of his hand. “Alright, _alright_ ,” he says to the two men with an annoyed tone. “I fucking get it, calm down.”

They’re still laughing, of course, by the time that Flip pushes himself up and out of his chair, the metal groaning beneath his hands when he does so. The soles of the cowboy boots that he wears scuff off the floor as he takes long, slow strides away from his desk and over to Sergeant Trapp’s office, his hand reaching for the doorknob to twist it and push the door open. The blinds on the other side of the door sway and knock against the window with the motion, causing Trapp’s head to lift from a file that’s open on his desk, contents spread out on the open space.

“Take a seat,” he says, waving with a hand towards the two chairs in front of his desk.

Flip does as he’s told, shutting the door behind him before making the quick walk across the room to pull the chair away from the desk just enough to allow him to step in front and take a seat. A soft breath of air is expelled through Flip’s nose as his eyes fall to the open folder on Trapp’s desk. “What’s this,” he asks curiously, though he’s fully aware it’s another case for him. “Another drug bust?”

“Not quite.” Trapp steeples his hands atop the photos and paperwork that are scattered over the open folder and across his desk. “Zimmerman, you ever heard’a the Smaldone family?”

Flip’s shoulders roll into a shrug, his head shaking when he responds. “No. Can’t say as I have.” He’s never been much of the type to go out of his way to read the news. There’s too much bad shit in the world, shit that he’s already dealing with firsthand at work. The last thing he needs to be is reminded of that when he’s on his days off or at home after a long shift.

“They’re a crime family, a big one. Doin’ everything under the sun you can think of. Racketeering, drugs, gamblin’, loansharking, extortion.” He’s counting off each bullet point with his fingers while he speaks. “The list really just goes on and fuckin’ on,” he says, huffing out a humorless laugh. “Got a ring runnin’ from Pueblo to Denver. Now this didn’t affect us much here until recently. You remember those guys that got picked up off East Platte Avenue couple months back?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember.” Flip nods, a finger tapping against his knee while he reclines back against the seat. “Biggest heroine bust we’ve had in a long fuckin’ while.” Hard to forget something like that, he thinks to himself, eyes still on the Sergeant.

“That’s the one,” Trapp replies, a finger pointing in Flip’s direction. “Well,” he starts, hand slamming down onto the file, turning some of the photos around to face Flip, sliding them towards him for a better look, “turns out they’ve been runnin’ the drugs for the Smaldones. Guess Denver and Pueblo’s just not enough. They’re branchin’ out here now.”

Flip leans in to get a better look at the photos, eyeing up the black and white scene of two men striding towards the front door of a restaurant, one that Flip recognizes as being a Colorado Springs establishment. “So, what, this is where you think the operation’s being run out of?” His gaze lifts to Trapp who’s head is nodding, glad to know that Flip’s pickin’ up what he’s layin’ down.

“It is. And I need you to infiltrate it.”

That statement alone has Flip’s brows raising skyward. He’s silent for a moment, just staring at Trapp, waiting for him to tell him that this is some sort of joke. But when nothing but silence follows, Flip exhales a heavy sigh and leans back into his chair, hand waving animatedly while he talks. “Let me get this straight. You want _me_ to infiltrate the fucking _mafia_ on my own?”

Trapp shakes his head, his own hand waving as if to emphasize his point. “No. No, you won’t be working alone. We’ll be working in tandem with the FBI.”

“Christ, the FBI?” He can’t help it. He truly cannot help himself. But Flip’s laughing now, his head shaking in disbelief. “Bunch of fucking credit stealing motherfuckers.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, kid.” While Trapp speaks, he gathers up the folder’s contents and puts them back into an organized, neat pile. “But a job’s a job and this here’s a big one. Go home, get some rest. Tomorrow you’ll have a debriefing with the feds and we can finally get this ball rolling.”

Pushing himself up out of the chair, Flip turns without so much as a goodbye, exiting the Sergeant’s office to grab his things and call it an early day.

“What’d you do, get fired,” Jimmy quips, the question eliciting a snicker of amusement from Ron and a roll of the eyes from Flip.

“Yeah, played one too many games of trash can basketball with you idiots,” Flip deadpans. “I’ll see you two tomorrow, try not to light anything on fire while I’m gone.”

And with that, Flip makes his exit, leaving the station to head to his truck. Getting mixed up with the Klan last year was dangerous enough, now he’s got to contend with the likes of the Mafia? Colorado Springs is growing far too big too fast for his liking.


	2. Chapter 2

The whoosh of a wooden door sounds, alerting the agents to Flip’s arrival. As they turn to face him, he steps into the room that houses approximately six agents, all of whom are dressed in suits and ties. Suddenly, Flip feels under-dressed in his flannel and jeans. “Gentleman,” he says, giving a curt nod, looking no less happy to be here as they are to see him.

“Phillip Zimmerman,” says a voice to his left, causing him to shift his attention towards the source.

Flip nods once his eyes land on the man who’d spoken to him. He’s a whole head shorter than Flip, less stocky too, but in this line of work, you don’t exactly need to have the stature and build that Flip does. He knows the Feds don’t go gettin’ themselves all roughed up. Not like he and the other detectives back in Colorado Springs do. “The one and only,” he jokes, though it falls flat on the entirety of the team in the room. The smile he’d donned after his own remark is wiped clean off in a matter of seconds and he clears his throat, now approaching the man with a hand extended in preparation for a shake. “Phil’s fine. Or Flip.”

“Flip?” This time, the comment comes from one of the men on the other side of the room from him. “What kind’a name is that?”

Exchanging handshakes with the man he’d initially spoken to, he turns to glance over his shoulder at the other. “It’s a nickname.”

God, he hates it here already. Hates the Feds too, but he knew that already. They’re just reinforcing that notion for him.

“That there’s Don,” says the shorter man who’s now letting go of Flip’s hand. “I’m Rob, then y’got Chris, Jason, Michael, and Steven.” As he rattles off each name, the corresponding man gives Flip a wave to which he reciprocates with a nod and a quick ‘hello’, all while attempting to commit to memory the faces of each along with their name.

“Take a seat if you would. We’ve got a lot to dive into and I’d as soon get started now so we can be done and over with by noon,” says Rob, his hand lifting to give Flip a brief pat square at the center of his back.

“Yeah, so we can go get lunch.” This comment comes from Jason, which garners laughter from the other men and nearly makes Flip’s eyes roll. Yeah, he definitely fuckin’ hates the Feds.

Doing as instructed none the less, he makes his way towards an empty seat and sits down, reclining back and making himself comfortable just as Rob positions himself behind the projector towards the back of the small room. He reaches for the light switch, plunging the room into darkness for a brief moment before the projector’s light comes on, shining directly onto the white wall on the opposite side of the room.

A loud shudder sounds as one of the slides clicks into place, the white space on the wall now replaced by a black and white photo of two smiling men dressed to the nines in suits that he’d guessed cost more than anything he could ever afford.

“Now, we here in Denver already know these two, but considerin’ Flip’s new here, let’s give him a quick recap, shall we? These here are Clyde and Eugene. They’ve been runnin’ their shiesty business outta the family business here in Denver for decades now. Eugene, otherwise known as Checkers,” Rob trails off just long enough to switch to another slide, now showing the younger brother on his own, “likes to play the bad cop. He’s got a nasty reputation for roughin’ up anyone who haven’t paid their dues. He’s also the one with ties to the mafiosos down in Pueblo, and he’s the one that’s got the business movin’ into Colorado Springs.” Another shudder sounds, the slide changing yet again to show Clyde’s face. “Clyde here’s the polar opposite. Total gentleman by all accounts.”

One of the agents nearby scoffs at that, and Flip tears his gaze away from the photo to bring his attention to Michael, who’s quick to cover up the sound with a cough.

“As I was saying,” says Rob, eyeing Michael with annoyance before bringing his attention back to the photo of Clyde just as Flip does the same. “Clyde’s got a real reputation for being Mr. Nice. Guy can make friends with everyone and everything under the sun.”

“Which means he’s got politicians, police, and other influentials on his roster.” Jason’s speaking up this time, and when Flip looks over at him, he finds that he’s already got his eyes on him. “And that means you gotta be even more careful who you’re fuckin’ talkin’ to once we start this mission,” says Jason.

Flip nods. “Yeah, okay. I got it.” He knows the drill. He’s been down roads like this plenty of times before, most recently with the Klan. He knows better than to go running his mouth, but when Jason’s gaze doesn’t waver, he realizes that he’s looking for more reassurance from him. “I’m not going to say shit to anyone.”

Satisfied, Rob delves into more background, detailing the various crimes that the Smaldones and their accomplices are deep into. It’d been just as Trapp had said before his trip up to Denver: racketeering, drugs, gambling, loansharking, and of course, extortion.

By the time that the debriefing is over and done with, Flip’s stomach is grumbling and the agents are already squabbling amongst themselves, trying to figure out where they’re going to be eating. “You’re welcome to join us,” Rob says, cutting into Flip’s thoughts.

Shaking his head, Flip lifts a hand to wave off the suggestion. “I appreciate it, but I’m going to have to pass. Got to head back to Colorado Springs.”

Rob shrugs and utters a ‘suit yourself’ before following up the statement with another. “Meet me back up here first thing tomorrow morning. Now that you’re debriefed, we can get a plan of action together and get this ball rolling.”

Giving Rob a nod of acknowledgement, Flip says his goodbyes and makes his way out of the field office to return to his truck. The hour long drive back to Colorado Springs will give him plenty of time to take in all of the information he’s been given. He already knows that tonight will be the last restful sleep he’ll get until this case has been wrapped up.


	3. Chapter 3

A long, drawn out whistle reverberates throughout the room, the sound grabbing the attention of the others as they stop what they’re doing to turn a curious glance in the direction of the door as it swings open.

“Alright, alright.” Flip’s motioning with his hands for the sound to be lowered—or preferably, dropped altogether.

“Christ almighty, look at him, boys. Looks like Colorado Springs _does_ clean up nice.” Rob smirks, cigarette in hand, the smoke rising upward towards the drop-down ceiling while he takes a step forward towards where Flip’s standing near the door to the conference room.

Michael swivels in his chair, eyes assessing the new getup. “ _Shiiiiit_. Looks like you went ‘n’ stepped right outta ‘The Godfather’.”

Flip can’t help but snort at that, eyes rolling as he surges forward, stepping around Rob to take a seat at the table. Gone are the heavy steps of the cowboy boots on his feet. They’ve since been replaced by a slick pair of polished black wingtip shoes. His typical flannel and jeans have been swapped with the best suit that he owns, black to match, of course, even going so far as to pair it with a black undershirt. Unbuttoning the suit jacket when he reaches an empty seat, Flip lowers himself down to take a seat, eyes focused on Rob as he begins to lay out the plan.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“So, you’ve got an ‘in’,” says Flip, his eyes casting a glance over to the driver seat where Rob sits, hands gripping the wheel of the Mercedes. Rob nods, and Flip does the same only slower. “With Clyde.” Again, Rob is nodding, and so is Flip, who purses his lips, eyes looking back out towards the road ahead of them. “And just how long have you been working on this particular undercover case?”

The steady hum of the spinning tires that carries them over the pavement fills the space between them until Rob responds. “Nearly a year now.”

Flip nods yet again, a soft hum of acknowledgement sounding as his eyes look back out at the road ahead of them. Denver is an hour behind them now, and Colorado Springs only another thirty minutes out, but that isn’t where they’re headed today. No, today their destination is the unassuming Italian restaurant in Pueblo known as Gaetano’s. Flip’s gaze shifts to the time displayed on his wristwatch. 3:30 PM. They’ve still got another hour, give or take, until they reach Pueblo.

“There’s one thing I didn’t mention to you during the debriefing,” Rob says, capturing Flip’s attention.

With a raised brow, he turns his head to look back over to Rob while his arm lowers back down into his lap. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

Rob sniffs, nose twitching in the process, and he looks over to Flip for just a moment before returning his attention back out at the road. “Word is, Clyde’s kid is going to handle the Colorado Springs business.”

Flip remains silent following the statement, like he’s waiting for there to be more to the remark, but when Rob says no more, he follows it up with “And?”

“ _And_ ,” starts Rob, “she’s a real piece of work. Got a mouth on her, that one. ‘Course you can’t say shit back to her. Not with Clyde bein’ her dad and all.”

“She?” Flip’s gaze is once again drawn over to Rob, waiting expectantly for confirmation, even though he’d heard him perfectly the first time.

Rob nods emphatically. “She.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

To most of the people in Pueblo, Gaetano’s is an unassuming family restaurant, the brick building and sign posted atop the entrance both unassuming in their own rights. Even the inside, Flip thinks to himself when he follows Rob past the threshold of the door, is every bit as unassuming. Deep, maroon booths line the back wall complete with a large mural of the family, while tables line the remainder of the open space. Flip notices that there are a few men seated at the bar, and at only a quick glance, he knows good and well that these men are associated with the family; knows that they’re packin’ beneath those jackets o’ theirs.

“This way,” says Rob, leading Flip past the tables as they make their way further into the restaurant. The swinging door that separates the kitchen from the dining area swings open, and the men pass through, Rob giving the woman cooking the food a tip of an imaginary hat. She’s a pleasant enough woman, Flip decides upon first glance, rounded cheeks and large smile accompanying short, curled hair and equally short stature; then again, he knows that in places such as these, not everyone is as they seem.

“Pat, darling,” she calls out to him, utilizing his alias as she waves at him with wooden spoon still in hand.

Rob smiles at her, all teeth, when he lowers his hand. “Ma, good to see you.”

“Who’s your handsome friend,” she asks, eyeing up Flip with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Rob turns to look at Flip, and then back to the woman—the matriarch, he realizes. “This here’s—”

“Vincent, ma’am,” Flip says, giving the woman a gentle tip of his head and a charming smile. “But, my friends all call me Vince.”

“Oh,” she says, a giddy tone accompanying her response. “That one there’s a looker, Pat. Best keep an eye on him or else I might snatch him up all for myself.” She laughs heartily at that, the sound raspy, a smoker’s cough following the action. Flip chuckles and Rob nods, assuring her that he’ll do just that, the two saying their goodbyes to the woman before they carry on with their walk through the kitchen towards yet another door.

The room they enter is small, smaller than any of the previous ones they’d been in; brick walls are bare, save for the few sconces that are lit up to illuminate the room, and at the center of the room is a table where five men are standing. But this, Flip recognizes, is no ordinary table.

“Craps,” says one of the men at the table, his attention now directed at Flip and Rob as the door shuts closed behind them. “Come. Join us.” The man motions for the two of them to join him at the table, and doing as they’re instructed, the pair stride across the small room and stand at the vacant spaces at the table.

It’d only taken one look, but Flip recognizes the man as Clyde, the patriarch. “Pat,” says the man, eyes darting between him and Flip, “introduce me to your friend here.”

“This here’s Vince.” Rob thrusts a thumb in Flip’s direction and Clyde nods, eyes appraising him simultaneously.

“Vince,” Clyde says, mulling over the name. “You don’t mind if I call you Vinnie, do you?”

Flip rolls his shoulders into a shrug, head shaking only briefly. “No. Vinnie’s fine.” Not that he thinks he has a choice in the matter, not really.

“Good. Good.” Again, Clyde’s nodding, his attention shifting back to the game in front of him. “You know how to play Craps, Vinnie?”

“I know enough. Can’t say as I brought enough for a buy-in, though,” he jokes half-heartedly. Clyde, however, takes it in stride, laughing at the remark.

“‘Course not.” Clyde places some of his chips on the pass line before handing off other chips to the dealer to place them in the appropriate spaces when Clyde calls his bets. “Not for ten grand a buy-in,” he remarks.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Flip’s spent the majority of his time stoic as ever, his gaze fixated on the table as roll after roll of the dice make their way across the felt. The longer the games go on, the more he finds himself bristling with the realization that the man at the opposite end of the table is rigging the game for his own favor. It’s a quick slight of hand, and had Flip not been paying as close attention as he had been, he would have missed it much like the others have thus far.

The sudden tensing of his body, shoulders squaring subconsciously tips off Clyde that there’s an issue. The patriarch swings his eyes over to where Flip is standing, jaw working before he speaks up. “Somethin’ the matter, Vince?”

Flip’s gaze flickers to the man who’s doing a damn good job of keeping his poker face strong, their gazes holding for a long moment before he sweeps his attention to Clyde. “The dice are loaded,” he says matter-of-factly.

“That true, Benny,” asks Clyde without so much as throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Flip can see now the way the façade breaks, and Benny’s expression morphs from indifference to anger. Anger that is directed at Flip. “You really going to let some newby in here, talkin’ all this shit about how I’m some loaded dice throwin’ cheat when you’ve known him all of five minutes?”

“I don’t know,” says a new voice that emanates from near the door. “He looks pretty trustworthy to me.”

Everyone’s head swings back, Flip’s included, to catch a look at the individual who’s entered the room; to get a look at _you_.

Clyde huffs a breath much like a dry laugh when he turns to see you, and Flip’s eyes rake along the outfit that you’re wearing. Unlike most other women in the business, you’ve chosen to wear a suit, the inky black material broken up by the white pinstriping that lines both the pants and the jacket. He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when it came to you, but _this_ is not it.

“Well,” you say, breaking Flip’s reverie. “ _Are_ you trustworthy?”

He watches as you take step after step towards him, the others fading away into the background as you approach. Flip nods once in affirmation, and you smile at him when your steps finally come to a halt mere feet from him.

“Good. In that case, why don’t you take that cheating rat out back and show him why we don’t let his kind get away with that behavior.” It isn’t a request, it’s a demand, one that Flip hears loud and clear. But his gaze still slides over to Clyde for good measure, but when he finds nothing in response except an expectant stare, he knows that he has no choice but to abide or risk blowing his cover already.

Benny objects, of course, and loudly so when Flip snatches him up by the collar. “No! No, no, no! You’ve got me all wrong! I didn’t do shit!” But his cries fall on deaf ears, and not a single person steps forward to help him. No matter how hard he twists and turns, Benny’s unable to get himself free of Flip’s vice-like grip as he’s dragged out of the room and out into the alleyway.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a flurry of fists, blood, and even loose teeth by the time that Flip is done with Benny, and he leaves the man slumped over in the alleyway. He flexes his fingers, bloodied knuckles aching with the blows delivered to the cheat as his other hand reaches for the back door, pulling it open to step back into the room with the others. “It’s done,” he says, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his stinging hand.

Flip’s eyes find yours almost immediately, and you nod in acknowledgement, a smirk curling your lips up as you speak. “Well, well. Looks like you were right, Pat,” she says to Rob, her eyes still on Flip whilst she speaks. “He’ll make a mighty fine addition to the Colorado Springs operation.”

There’s a sense of unease that settles deep within Flip’s gut upon hearing your words, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s in way over his head with this one.

“Come,” you tell him with a nod of your head toward the door. “Let’s you and I discuss what I have in mind for you going forward.”


	4. Chapter 4

“A fucking body guard,  _ that’s _ what you want me to be?”

The door to Clyde’s office has  _ just _ closed, your ass barely meeting the leather seat when Flip pushes back with a huff. You wait silently, a hand reaching for the pack of Nazionali cigarettes on the desk to retrieve one, putting it to your lips before lighting it with the nearby Zippo. A single brow raises in silent inquiry whilst you listen to Flip huff and puff about how he’s ‘not anyone’s fuckin’ body guard’.

There’s a slight curve to your lips while you inhale a puff of nicotine, the only sign that there’s any hint of amusement with regard to what you’re witnessing right now. Flip knows he’s got to play the part, got to do whatever’s asked of him,  _ but this _ ? He shakes his head, hand waving about animatedly as if to emphasize his point. “You’re underestimating my value to you.”

“Am I?” You’re quick to counter, both brows raising upward now, your eyes tracking him around the room as he paces. “ **Sit**.” The stern tone to your voice leaves Flip with zero room for any sort of retort, the smoke from the cigarette that’s gripped between your fingers wafting towards the ceiling when you point with your index and middle fingers towards the two seats in front of the desk. Almost immediately, Flip’s steps halt, his gaze dropping down from you to the seats. He reaches for the one closest to him, scooting it out just enough to step around it, one hand reaching for the button of his jacket, undoing it just as he lowers himself down onto the chair.

Silence falls between the two of you, the only sound that can be heard in the room is that of you retrieving a cigarette from your pack to offer it up to Flip, the plastic covering of the pack crinkling against your fingers. He takes it from you, placing the butt of it between his lips. He leans in and you do the same, holding the flame of your Zippo up to help him ignite the end of his cigarette. Flip mutters a ‘thank you’ before leaning back into his seat. Metal thunks against the desk’s wooden top when you set the lighter aside, settling back into your chair to eye him up, the two of you allowing the silence to drag on longer as you both puff your way through your respective cigarettes, neither of you relenting.

It isn’t until Flip huffs a breath through his nose that you speak up. “The last thing that I am doing is underestimating you.”

“Oh? That so?”  _ Careful _ , he thinks to himself. He can already tell by your expression that he’s pushed the boundaries too far. He’ll need to relax, let things take their course if he’s to finish this mission in one piece. His eyes follow the movement of your hand when the cigarette is pulled away from your mouth after inhaling another breath, smoke billowing from your lips as you tap the ash into the nearby ashtray.

You’re silent a minute longer, eyes assessing the man sitting before you, taking him in and deliberating how you’ll deliver these next words. “Don’t think of it as a bodyguard position, Vinnie. You’re essentially going to be my right hand man.”

Now this,  _ this _ was the in that he needed.

He says nothing at first, instead, slowly nodding his head in understanding. “You don’t know me from Adam,” he retorts just before taking another drag of his cigarette.

Like him, you nod now, snuffing out your cigarette in the ashtray, perfectly manicured hand pushing the tray in his direction. “You’re right. I don’t.  _ But _ , those goons in there,” you start, pointing in the direction of where the two of you’d come from earlier, “aren’t capable of walking without tripping over their own two feet. I wouldn’t trust them with the business if my life depended on it. Which, if this operation doesn’t get up and running successfully, it might very well. Besides…” You take a moment, crossing your legs beneath the desk, hands coming to lay on the armrests of the chair. “I just told you to  _ jump _ , and you didn’t ask me how high. You just... **did** .”

There’s an iciness in your voice, one that settles itself into his bones, sends a chill up along his spine and sets the hair on the back of his neck upright, muscles tensing at the satisfied smile that stretches across your features.

Another long pause settles between the two of you, Flip now sucking on his cigarette again while you hold each other’s gazes. “Since you’re already on the clock — ”

“Oh, am I?” The rhetorical question both cuts you off mid-sentence as well as elicits a daggered stare on your part.  _ If looks could kill _ , Flip thinks to himself with only the most minute sliver of amusement.

" **_Yes_ ** ,” you bite back, “ _ you are _ .” Flip notices the way your index finger twitches against the arm of the chair with the agitation that courses through your veins, and yet you fail to do anything about that smart mouth of his.

Interesting.

He notes this bit of information, tucks it away in the back of his mind for future use. Perhaps he can use this little bit of knowledge to his advantage later should the need for it arise.

“As I was saying, there’s going to be a dinner here tonight. The restaurant’s shutting down early to accommodate. Consider it a meeting of clients old and new.” You fall silent again, taking a moment to assess him once more. This time, Flip is smart, his mouth is closed and he’s saying nothing, doing nothing other than smoking the last of his cigarette. “You’re going to accompany me. If I’m going to open this new business of mine up correctly, I’ll need all the help I can get, and you’ve found your way to the top of my list. Lucky you.”

The corners of Flip’s lips twitch up into the faintest smirk, and he leans forward to snuff out the cigarette stub in the offered ashtray that sits atop the desk. “What time do you need me to be there,” he asks, leaning back in his seat.

Your eyes shift from his face over to the small clock that sits on top of the desk next to a family photo that includes you, your father, mother, and siblings. “Seven-thirty, and not a second later.” Swinging your attention back to him, a single brow raised in challenge. “You got that?”

Flip’s head nods slowly. “Got it, boss.”

There’s an edge to his voice, one that teeters on sarcasm and makes your pulse jump with both irritation and…is that excitement? Perhaps that’s why you’d let him go on for so long, so brazenly cutting in when he’s meant to keep that mouth of his shut.

“Good. Now, go on. I’m sure my father and Pat aren’t quite done with you yet.” You dismiss him with a wave of your hand, allowing him to retreat back to the back room where the Craps game is still taking place, sans one participant.

In a handful of hours you’ll be face to face with Flip once more. From all outward appearances, he seemed plenty capable of doing this job, but the real test would come at tonight’s dinner.


End file.
